


Sevens

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Series: A List of Love, Loss, and Desperation [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: College AU, Dead People, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Smut, ish, some hints of serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College was strange. It was never quite the same, and they weren't always the same people, but she's glad to have met him. <br/>He's glad to have met her. She's his reprieve from solitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. University Basics

**Author's Note:**

> I'm being given seven prompts for a writing exercise for completing the idea in one paragraph. Feel free to suggest prompts, but only in sets of seven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food. Food and dorm life. They both sucked, and so did the professors. Ugh.

**Ramen**

Cooking is an art. No matter what he’s making, it’s an art. He puts in careful time, effort, and ingredients to make the most beautiful dishes and entrees that his college budget can afford. He—  
Her stomach growls and she snatches the package from him, dumping the noodles into the boiling water and readying a bowl, not waiting for him to dice more chicken. “Babe, it’s pre-packaged ramen. You can’t make it fancy or the god of college students will smite you for cheating the system.”

 

**Midterms**

They’re a formality, really. Just a test in the middle of the semester. Not special, not harder, not even  _cumulative_ in half his classes. Hers are different, though. She sits beside him on the quiet floor of the library, hands buried in her hair and head down over a massive behavioral psychology textbook. She’s got three notebooks and two more textbooks spread between empty coffee cups and half-finished pens, her head swimming with information and stress. He untangles one of her hands and holds it under the table, smiling when she breathes a huge sigh of relief.

 

**School Food**

It’s  _literally_  the worst, she complains on the floor of his apartment. No matter which dining hall she goes to, the food is the same degree of bad. No one can make a bagel, the pizza tastes half-right, “Italian food” has been translated to limp pasta served with watery tomatoes. She’s sick and tired of it and wants to go home. He lies down beside her and promises to take her home next weekend if she’ll show him “real New York food”.

 

**Fraternities**

He doesn’t like the idea of a frat, much less a frat party. She does. She drags him from house to house, trashed on jungle juice and high on the night. He drinks his whisky sourly from the flask, watching from dark corners as she hails down friends and talks loudly over the booming music. She finds him again—after he’s gotten comfortably drunk—chatting with classmates in the kitchen where the air isn’t so hot. He lets her pull him into closet after closet, her lips sweet like raspberries and honey wine.

 

**Sororities**

He doesn’t see her much while she’s rushing. She’s always busy now, running from event to event, the straps of her white dress always falling off her shoulders. He didn’t peg her as the type, with her wild hips and loose tongue, but, as always, she surprised him. He’s happy for her, he guesses, when she smiles and tells him all about what they’re doing. Some part of him gnaws, though, upset she won’t be moving in with him next semester, upset that some nights he’ll fall asleep in a cold bed.

 

**Woeful Dorm Life**

Hannibal  _loathed_ it. Loathed living too far off campus, loathed having to walk up hill both ways in the snow, loathed living on a floor where no one seemed to be able to  _shut up_ on Thursday nights. He liked having a single, but he  _loathed_  everything else. Alana, however, loved it. She loved having friends next door, loved having a roommate to talk shit to, loved having a common space where her suite gathered to panic over exams. She loved everything except sharing a room at night. She never sexiled her roommate (not even  _once_ ), but found herself in the suite next door more nights than she liked, uselessly surfing the internet for hours until that night’s conquest dressed and left. Sometimes they stayed longer, and on those nights she walked uphill to sit on Hannibal’s lap and drink shitty wine and ride him until the sun came up.  
Hannibal loved her roommate for that.

 

**Creepy Professors**

He straight-up  _growled_  when she told him. Growled like a wolf, his red eyes shining in the fluorescent lights. He took her into his arms and kissed her neck and whispered little things into her ear. It wasn’t that big of a  _deal_ , she just wasn’t going back to office hours. Ever again. She didn’t need creepy hands on her thighs and she could  _certainly_  take care of herself. He didn’t listen very well, asking her over and over if she were all right. She rolled her eyes, not nearly as upset as he. He waited for her after class every day following, his glare at the professor fierce and icy. She appreciated his company, but definitely thought he was overreacting.   
She smacked him across the chest with a spatula years later when her old professor was reported missing on the news.


	2. Objects and Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here be smut in the beginning and end, so if you're not down for that, skip the first and the last

**Pink**

He watches her lips in the semi-darkness. They’re the color of bubblegum, bubbly and vibrant. Her tongue flits quickly across them as she eases off his boxers and settles herself across his legs. He keeps telling her she didn’t have to and she keeps telling him she wants to, her fingers tight and hot on his swollen cock. His back arches when she exhales warm breath on his tip, her pink lips so close to his red skin. She’s been overstimulating him for an hour, and he nearly loses it when she takes him into her pink mouth, her tongue tracing his ridges and folds. She’s done this so many times before, he realizes as she continues to use her breath, making him hotter, hotter. She draws his orgasm from him, his fists balled into the sheets, his breathing fast and erratic, her name bursting from his chest starting with a low moan and ending in a high scream. He tries so hard not to buck his hips and fails, but she rewards him with one last long glide of her mouth. He watches as she swallows, wiping her mouth on the back of her arm, smearing the pink of her lipstick, her mouth now a swollen red. And as she crawls up to lie beside him, her naked figure hazy in the dark, he can’t think of anything more beautiful than she, this crazy girl who took a sledgehammer to his walls and touches him without being begged, asking nothing in return.

 

**Pillows**

She sleeps with a mountain of pillows on her bed, curled up in them like a bird in a nest. He hates it, knowing there’s hardly any room for him on her small single. He stays with her on rainy nights, never wanting to walk all the way home. She never tells him one of the reasons she has so many is because it forces him closer to her. They cuddle so tightly, every curve of him pressed to her back, his heart thrumming against her shoulders. It beats faster whenever she plays with his fingers, and she likes being so close to him. She can’t turn over, though, or they won’t sleep. He seems to have an insatiable desire to press his lips to hers that not even exhaustion can conquer. He’s so hungry to touch her that she figures he had a rough childhood, one with less affection than he needed. She’s all he’s had in terms of affectionate, long-term lovers, and part of her wants to be his  _only_  one.

 

**Paisley Tie**

She spent the entire first half of winter break looking for The Perfect Gift. She dragged her friends from store to store in the Village, snooped around antique stores and thrift shops around the corner from Union Square, even crossed over to Hoboken to see if Jersey had anything decent to offer (it did not). She lay crumpled on the floor of their townhouse, becoming an obstruction in the living room as her mother fussed about with Christmas decorations, pushing Dad’s menorah to a back corner of the room. “You’re acting ‘orrible, Alana,” she whispered harshly, setting a third row of golden angels on the mantle.  
"I’m a failure of a girlfriend. I can’t find him a gift."  
"It’s not about the gift, it’s about the intent." Geneviève Bloom stepped over her useless daughter, frowning. "Give ‘im something meaningful."  
She found something, eventually, in a tiny little shop off Canal Street, one that smelled like tobacco smoke and wood polish. A tie—a  _paisley_  tie—made of fine silk. It was old and beautiful, the same pale moss of his birthstone. He opened it on Christmas halfway across the globe, her eyes stinging with the lateness of the night and the tiring day with her family. He smiled so widely she thought his cheeks would burst—she’d never seen that much emotion on his face. He loved it, he loved it  _so much_. He blew a kiss at the webcam and asked her if she’d gotten his present. She had, and she apologized for opening it without him, pushing her hair from her neck to show him the tiny gold starfish.

 

**Grandmother’s Ring**

He wasn’t proposing, not quite. They were too young for that, too unstable. But it was clear he wanted to. He wanted to set them on clear ground with how much they meant to each other. He was serious about her, and her heart tried to escape her body when he placed the small velvet box into her open palms. The ring inside was old and worn but still elegant. It was gold with three beautiful fire opals inlaid in intricate weaving. Her mouth didn’t move, nor did her eyes, unable to comprehend what was happening. She was barely twenty, she couldn’t promise herself to someone. She was so young. But he—but he was  _everything_  she wanted, everything she loved. She’d had him for a year and a half, and still her mind didn’t waver that  _he_  was her final destination, the last thing,  _The One_. It was his grandmother’s, and he wanted to be formal about this. She was still so awestruck she didn’t speak, watching as his lips formed words. He was so naïve and it was so cute, but…she understood. She nodded, she kissed him, and she understood. She didn’t deserve such a gentleman, but she wasn’t about to complain. 

 

**Knuckles**

She takes his hands into hers, sucking in a breath at how scraped and bloody he’s made himself. He got in a scrap, he says, but she knows better. She knows about the body round back, and knows that most of this blood isn’t his. His knuckles, though, are cut raw and deep. It’s a miracle he didn’t break them somehow. She’s a dutiful girlfriend, a good girlfriend, so she kisses his nose and soaks his hands in a mixture of soap and warm water, cleaning the dirt from his wounds as he tries not to wince. She bandages him up carefully, trying not to hurt him further as she tugs off his shirt, frowning at the big gash in his side. It’s shallow, almost completely superficial, but it’s still bleeding. He whimpers when the rubbing alcohol makes contact, and she gives him a hand to squeeze. She tapes him up and her shoulders drop. She sighs and cups his face, forehead against his. “Please don’t scare me like this again.”

 

**Favorite 80s Movies**

They’re dorks, she realizes as she curls up beside him on his tiny bed. His laptop is connected to the television and he has a bowl of something that looks like gourmet soup in his lap. She’s cuddling with a bag of Cheetos, surprised he’s letting her eat on his bed. Her head is barely touching his thigh, and she already knows that this night will end with her in his lap, his hands eager and greedy on her hips. She’s been watching the way he looks at her, and it fills her with nervous butterflies. He’s been her best friend all semester, her closest friend, and now she  _knows_  he’s about to become something…more. They’ve decided to watch  _Ferris Bueller_  and she  _knows_  how this will end.  
It’s not as rushed as she imagined, but the nature is still the same. He abandons the soup an hour in and lies down behind her, one of his arms carefully around her waist. She guides his hand to her hip so he knows it’s okay to touch her. The movie ends with one of his hands up her shirt, carefully kneading and stroking her soft, small breasts.

 

**VCR**

She can’t believe he actually did it. He said when he got an apartment, he’d hook the decrepit old thing up to his television,  _and he actually did it_. He said something about enjoying older media, but that was just bullshit. No one even owns video tapes anymore. Okay, Hannibal did, but only Hannibal. He’d kidnap her on Friday nights and carry her bridal style up the stairs as she huffed, her arms folded across her chest. He’d toss her on the bed and make her watch old movies with him, and she would, since he enjoyed it so much. They never made if far into the movies, however. She’d lose her patience and start kissing him with a hand down his pants. The look of frustrated arousal suited him, and she couldn’t help but giggle at how torn he was—really into old cinema but also  _really into her playing with his cock._  She’d strip off her top and bra if he still needed convincing—he was still a human boy and he was still  _deeply_  in love with female anatomy (particularly the bouncy bits), and she always won.   
The sex on Friday nights was always twice as good.


	3. Seven Sevens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter break: it should be less stressful than this. But here he is, standing outside her townhouse, her fingers sewn with his. Her family is right inside that door, and he's not sure this will be his best first impression.

**Seven Brides for Seven Brothers**

He didn’t like musicals. He thought they were an insult to performance arts, with little class and little style. She made him sit through musical after musical, dragging him from show to show all winter break. He said he’d stay with her for half of break, but not if she wanted to do  _this_ constantly. It was torture. The singers all belted too loudly in the wrong register, the talent was lacking, and the dance breaks were dreadful at best. She had him sneak up to her room one night from the second floor guest bedroom, and he was frightened for his life for getting caught. Her father was harmless, but  _Geneviève_. Geneviève Bloom was a terror of a mother, and he wanted no part in offending her. Alana patted the bed beside her and he curled under the covers, his toes cold and his feet hurting from running around the City all day. He wanted to sleep. She smiled and scooted down, wrapping her arms around him. She lulled him to sleep with some old showtune, but from her mouth, it didn’t sound like yowling cats, and for that he was grateful.

 

**Seven Dwarfs**

He lies on her queen-sized bed, eyes closed and hands folded over his sternum. He’s leaving to spend the rest of his winter break in the Czech Republic on holiday with his uncle in three days, and he’s exhausted by this city. She sits on the floor reading to herself, as he said he was going to nap an hour ago, but he can’t sleep. “Alana, my pet.” She turns to him and makes a face. She’s never been referred to as  _pet_  before. “Go to sleep, Hannibal.” “Come cuddle. Read to me.” He’s going soft, he can feel it, but he craves her attention, her body next to his. He hasn’t grown out of this stage of wanting to touch her constantly, only managed to hide it. She rolls her eyes and joins him, letting him tuck her against his chest. She reads  _Snow White_  to him until  _she_  falls asleep, leaving him drowsy and content, lazily rolling his fingers through her hair.

 

**The Misfits**

He snoops around her room when she’s down in the kitchen arguing with her mother over…something. He gathers that they don’t always get along, based not only on Alana’s reactions, but those of her older sister and brother as well. Louisa seems to be the sternest of the Bloom siblings, the most like her mother. Charlie is a balance and Alana is her father. Her never-present, always-working father. She’s told him about her dad—Frank Bloom, lawyer for an important overseas shipping company. He wasn’t a permanent fixture in her childhood due to his job, but they spent a lot of time together, and she seemed to really look up to him. He stumbles across her vinyl collection during his investigation, pulling a bunch of 70s metal records from under her bed. She catches him doing it, standing frozen in her doorway. He grins at her and tells her it’s cute she takes after her dad. She turns red and smacks him on the back of the head.

 

**Flat 7Up**

They’ve been sitting in front of her computer for  _so long_ he thinks he might pass out. His soda on the desk has gone flat and the chips between them are stale. If he squints, he can see the sun starting to creep over the Manhattan skyline. He’s so, so,  _so_  tired. His head is on her shoulder, both of his arms around her waist. He wants her to come to bed, has been asking for three hours, but she’s got this determined pout on her lips and wild alertness in her eyes. She’s searching for something, some bit of information, and she’s refusing to stop until she finds it. He admires her ability to press on, but he wants sleep. Five minutes more and he’s buried himself in her bed, covers pulled around his head. He loves his girlfriend—he really does—but he thinks she’s gone batshit.

 

**Deadly Sins**

He’s keeping a mental checklist of the sins he keeps committing. The big ones, you know, not the bitty useless ones, like lying and manipulating people. He’s not very gluttonous (though his stomach makes more decisions than his head), and his hedonism isn’t too ridiculously up there. He’s envious of—no, he’s not envious. He’s  _jealous_  of Alana’s home and family, even though they seem to drive her up a tree. He wants her to have it, but he wants it too. He wants to be kissed on the forehead and hugged by a cheerful mother and told he’s been excelling in his studies. But that’s why he has her, isn’t it? So she can kiss and hug him and tell him he’s the brightest kid she’s met, though he is a massive dick about it. He takes pride in his smarts, takes pride in the twisted mess that is his brain, always leading him through a labyrinth of thoughts. He’s too prideful, like a lion, and that pride leads to wrath. Red, like the blood that stained his shirt two weeks before they left for break, his nose not nearly as bad as the other kid’s. You don’t speak poorly of Hannibal Lecter if you know what’s good for you. He’s greedy, too, and won’t let anyone else touch her. Alana Bloom, his object of surprising affection. He didn’t think he could want another human being as much as he wanted her, and it startled him awake at night. He loved sleeping next to her nearly as much as he loved sleeping with her. She was hot and rough, her body a cage for him. He craved the sight of her on top of him, the feel of her hips under his hands, her breasts bouncing with each rock of her core. He’d let her make love to him for years at a time if he could. Oh, he’s so lazy. He doesn’t want to get out of bed any morning during break, not even Christmas. He just wants to lie beside her with his fingers in her panties, relishing how she squirms against his touch, biting back little moans as he yawns, not wanting to start the day.

 

**Heavenly Virtues**

She’s like some fuckin’ angel from heaven compared to him. She laughs at other people’s jokes, she smiles, she’s genuinely nice to others; she’s his opposite. She’s his complete opposite and yet somehow she loves him. They went to Scarsdale for Christmas dinner with her father’s family, and he clashed with half of them on a bunch of different issues. Her mother smirked all dinner, proud of the boy her daughter had brought home, but her father was noticeably uncomfortable, and so was Alana. She turned to bicker with him over dessert, and they calmly moved the discussion to the kitchen, where she hissed at him to stop making her mother happy. He gave a curt reply and they overheard the lofty voice of her aunt,  _they act like a proper married couple, Frank. They even get along better than you and Ginny_. She looked surprised for a moment before turning to him, a huge grin on her face. He apologized softly and she stood on tiptoe to give him a quick peck on the lips before leading him back to the dinning room, her fingers laced with his. She was an angel, he told her late, late that night as he stripped off his vest and button down, covering his chilling skin with a deep blue sweater. His angel, he whispered, slipping into bed beside her. She locked into him like a jigsaw piece, nudging his nose with hers. She knew. He was her devil, and she loved him so stupidly much.

 

**Seven Catholic Sacraments**

He thought they were important, the sacraments of the church. She didn’t see why there needed to be  _seven_ of them. She barely understood her faith, Alana whined, laying her head on the dinning room table. He was discussing religion with her mother, and he could tell his girlfriend was agitated. She came from such a muddled religious background that she wanted no part of this conversation, but was bound by family rules to sit until the discussion was over. She looked to her father for help, but he was too interested in his espresso to save her, leaving his youngest daughter stuck between her lover and her mother. He smirked at her when he brought up the sacrament of marriage, heavily emphasizing his beliefs. She kept her mouth shut after that, her stomach fleeing the vicinity of her body.


	4. Things that get Drunk in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut in the last one, just a warning

**Popcorn**

She rips the bag from his hands, not wanting to wait for his slow fingers to finally tear open the package. She does it herself and dumps the popped kernels into a big plastic bowl, tossing them around until they look evenly buttered and salted. She smirks at him and ducks under his arm, sneaking back to his room. She hears him sigh from down the hall, already fed up with her tonight. He follows after her and closes the door, curling up on her lap like a cat. She rolls her eyes and bends to kiss his cheek, laying a hand on his head. “I feel feverish,” he whines, turning his head so slightly to see her face. “D’you wanna go to sleep?” He nods. She puts the popcorn on the floor and nudges him off her. They crawl under the sheets and she strokes his back until he falls asleep, the argument forgotten in the plastic blue bowl under the bed.

 

**Onesie Pajamas**

She doesn’t know how to react when she opens the box, holding back a laugh. Inside is a pair of those crazy Japanese character pajamas, the ones her friends all had in high school. They were styled like a sheep and she had to bite her cheek to keep from giggling. She had  _no_  idea where he found them, or how he knew she’d coveted them for years, but she didn’t care. They were perfect, and she kissed him on the nose in return.

 

**Beer Pong**

She was getting a bit hazy. She was the champion of the beer pong table her freshman year, having the teachings of two seasoned frat-party siblings and eight years of lacrosse in her fingers. She didn’t practice over the summer, and her aim had gotten a bit off. She and Victor were still  _creaming_  Hannibal and Ashley, having landed consecutive pong ball after pong ball into their cups. Hannibal was swaying on his toes, though his focus was consistent—more than she could say for his aim. Ashley was  _trashed_ , and she kept curving her throws far to the right. Alana sunk the winning shot. Hannibal looked three times worse after chugging the remaining beer. “I’m playing on your side next time,” he growled at her when they left, leaning on her shoulders to keep from falling over. “Not a  _chance_ ,” she laughed. _  
_

**SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS _EERRRRYBODY_**

Five shots in twenty minutes. Five shots in twenty minutes and Alana couldn’t stand up right. This was payback for last weekend, when she’d purposefully gotten him  _schwasted_. She was on the floor in another twenty minutes, bypassing tipsy and slamming straight into  _drunk_. He sat on the sofa nursing a glass of wine, barely comfortably numb. She couldn’t feel her tongue anymore, and the room continued to spin when she closed her eyes. He kept grinning at her, because, after all, this was  _her_  fault. If she hadn’t wanted to see him sing karaoke and dance to Beyoncé last Saturday, she wouldn’t be faded on the floor now. She tried to argue, but her sentences came out backwards and she laughed, giving up. She made ridiculous comments as he took his time to get to drunk, finishing three-fourths of his bottle. He let her sleep in his bed, her clothes chucked around his room, shoes thrown in some useless corner. He promised to play doctor for her hangover tomorrow, and she passed out, mentioning that sounded  _swell_.

 

**Alcohol you Set on Fire**

She finds him staring hypnotized at the bathtub. He set it on fire earlier, he tells her. He set the  _whole goddamn tub on fire_. Full of water and everything. He hands her the bottle of antifreeze vodka she’d stolen from her roommate the night prior, and she sighs. She bends to check his forehead, but he feels cool, not warm. He’s not sick, he says defensively. Yeah, he’s not sick, but he  _reeks_ of cannabis. She groans and plops down behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her forehead into his back. “Babe, you need to go to bed.” He turned to scowl, displeased at his pet name. She rolls her eyes and squeezes him gently. “C’mon, it’s almost three, put the lighter down.” She wrenches him up and he goes, knocking out on top of his sheets.

 

**Beer Nuts**

They sit together at the bar, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, their fingers twisting and untwisting. The bartender gave up on them an hour ago, after his fifth cosmo and her third gin & tonic. They giggled quietly to each other, whispering things about the room around them. She’s just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago, and still wasn’t used to the environment, or the silly peanuts. 

 

**Wood-Grain Countertop**

_Not in the kitchen._ Never in Hannibal’s kitchen. First, because he shared it with two other housemates. Second, because it was his chapel. Not in the kitchen, he said, but in the kitchen they wound up. He was breathless, flushed, and greedy, propping her up on the beautiful countertop, the one he wiped down earlier only for her to dirty again, her wetness gathering faster than he could do anything about it. Her panties were  _gone_ , and her skirt was hiked so high over her hips she doubted it would ever come off. He had to hold her legs open with one hand, his thumb pressing down on her soft skin, as she was having a hard time controlling her body. Her back kept arching and she was yanking and tugging at his hair, trying her best not to scream. His breath was hot against her, his tongue warm and inviting. She could hear nothing but the licks and his panting and the raw moans from her chest. He kept proving himself to be a better and better lover, and she was too stimulated to handle it, all her nerve endings crying out in pleasure from his mouth on her, his fingers pumping inside her. With a final swirl around her clit, she moaned for him, soiling those countertops to a point where they could no longer reclaim innocence.


	5. Childhood Movies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's seen nearly none of them. He doesn't get why she likes them so much, they're all so mediocre at best...but, maybe that's their charm. The nostalgia of the place makes the films magical.

**Labyrinth**

They’re at a party. They’re at some  _wild_  80s party and he’s  _wasted_. That’s right, sports fans, Hannibal Lecter is  _drunk off his ass_ , giggling at every few sentences out of his own mouth. Jungle juice is sweet and potent and it  _wrecks_ him. He’s such a sucker for sugary things, which is probably why he’s such a sucker for Alana Bloom. She’s sitting beside him on the floor, her hair teased and her makeup thick and dark. She’s dressed as some incarnation of Madonna, with a tiny skirt and massive cleavage—he’s not sure where  _that_  came from considering her breast size, but it’s been making him uncomfortably aroused all night. Which is unfortunate, because she stuck him tight leggings. Leggings, a pirate shirt, and even darker makeup. He’s David Bowie. He’s the same David Bowie from this movie they’re watching that makes him want more shots and less brain function, the damn thing is so weird. He’s going to have  _such_  a hangover tomorrow, along with nightmares of those  _fucking_  red fire things.

 

**Beauty & The Beast**

She makes him get up and waltz with her. They’ve seen this movie together a zillion times, and he’s not even slightly surprised that he’s mouthing the words to all the songs. “It’s the perfect movie for us,” she tells him when he spins her. “I’m a beauty, you’re a beast. I think we’d fit in just fine.” He chuckles and glides them to a halt. “I’m a beast now?” She shrugs. “Well, you kill people. You eat them. You have straight As in De Vaun’s class. Pretty beastly if you ask me.” He rolls his eyes and gives her an eskimo kiss, holding her tightly against him. “And you love me all the same.  _Che bello_ , my little songbird.”

 

**Atlantis: The Lost Empire**

It’s an event for them.  _It’s **the best**  Disney film_, she said when they first watched it. His childhood had been so bare of childish things, but this movie.  _This_ movie. He remembered this movie. The excitement, the backstabbing, the ridiculous crew, the bumbling protagonist, the beautiful warrior princess, and the science.  _Oh yes,_  the science. They both gushed over the craft, reverted to their thirteen-year-old selves, bright-eyed and innocent to the ways of the world—at least, Alana was. Not Hannibal. He was scared and hurt by the time he was eight, and the years had only hardened him. He keeps up that fake smile the first three times they watch it on late Wednesday nights, but on the fourth, he cracks. He cracks and lays his head in her lap and lets a solitary tear fall from his cheek, remembering how much his sister loved flights of fantasy and blue, rolling waves.

 

**The Hunchback of Notre Dame**

"He goes through all that and  _still_ doesn’t get the girl?” Hannibal shouts at the television, throwing a pillow to the other side of the room. “What the  _fuck_ , Alana?” She looks over at him carefully. She decided it was better to sit a cushion away from him halfway through the film, his temper climbing at each injustice to Quasimodo. “Have you read the—” “Of course I’ve read the book. I expected Disney to be a bit  _sappier_  than this.” He sides down into the couch, arms crossed over his chest. His face is so red she can’t help but laugh, which only makes him crosser. “You think this is funny?” “I think your reaction is  _ridiculous_.” He growls and pushes his hair back in an angry mess. “I asked you for a happy movie, now I feel the need for a pint of ice cream.” “It  _has_  a happy ending!” He gets up and clomps to the kitchen, scowling all the way. “Yeah?  _Not_ for the protagonist.” He falls back onto the sofa with a tub of Phish Food and an ice cream scoop, which he uses in place of a spoon. “You’re never smoking with me again, okay?” “That’s  _fuckin’_ fine with me.” He shovels an impressive amount of marshmallows and caramel into his mouth. “Bunch of heart-breaking little cunts.”

 

**The Last Unicorn**

She’s taking up the entire length of the couch, legs up over one arm rest, head tucked under the other. A bowl of popcorn rests lazily on her stomach, and her eyes are half-dead. Tissues litter the ground like bullets, their boxes empty magazines. She’s stuck in her fever daze and doesn’t notice him come in. He brings her cold medicine and hot soup, slightly guilty about going to play cards with him friends. She said she was going to watch a feel good movie, but now here she is bawling her eyes out through the sneezes. He lifts her legs and sits down, laying them across his lap. He pushes her pajama pant legs up to let his fingers wander across her calves, something she appreciates very much.  _It was the only comforting thing my mother did in my youth_ , she told him once. He smiles and kisses her knees when she begins to hum.

 

**Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer**

He fits so well on the couch, between her well-tailored father and her ever-stylish brother. He looks lost, but he fits. Much better than she, with his beautiful vests and sophisticated sweaters. He looks like a proper Bloom, unlike Alana. She’s in her red velvet dress, but is wearing combat boots under the hem, which got her a disapproving look at service. She sits on the other side of the sofa, between her mother and the arm rest. Louisa is spread out on the floor, her long golden-orange hair cascading down the skin-tight black dress that  _also_ got a disapproving look. Alana huffs, wishing she had the same flawless class as her siblings. It’s like two thoroughbred racehorses had three foals; two were perfect and pretty and the third was a donkey. She dyes her hair and wears her bras to be seen— _no one_  quite knows how she turned out so different. Or how she managed to hook that pretty boyfriend of hers. That pretty boyfriend, who is being initiated into the Bloom cult via  _Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer_. That pretty boyfriend, who looks over at her, panicked and nervous he’ll fuck up because he’s never  _done_  all this family stuff. Because under all those suave, sophisticated words he’s the biggest dork she’s ever met, with no idea how to be anything but a high-functioning half-human who runs on caffeine and compliments. She smirks back at him,  _god he’s such a dork._  If anything, they should be asking him how  _he_  managed to hook  _her._  

 

**It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!**

"Shut up, shut  _up_.” Alana’s chucking Kit-Kats at anyone talking in the common room, pissed and in dire need to see this movie  _right goddamn now_. She smacks Hannibal over the head with a Twix bar the second time he opens his mouth, breaking the candy on impact. Their suitemates are quiet after she throws more sweets, preoccupying everyone with sugar. She’s watched this movie every Halloween, having grown up with the Peanuts. Hannibal’s never seen it before, and doesn’t understand the draw to the kid in the yellow zig-zag shirt and his silly dog, but she’s so engrossed that he won’t ask questions until it ends.  
Okay, never mind, he’s covering his face to muffle his laughter. He remembers being this age and he  _knows_  he was something of a Charlie Brown before all the accidents happened. If she wants to watch the rest of these cartoons tonight, he’s willing, even if his Van Helsing costume isn’t shown off in all its glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* when your thing gets wild chilly down chilly down


	6. Put on your Sunday Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks fabulous in nearly everything he wears. She feels ridiculous in nearly everything she wears. She can't believe he looks good in ratty pajamas and he can't believe that yes, bikinis actually have power over the male sex.

**Casual**

Her casual is not his casual. She wears sheer tops when she can get away with it, coupled with bright patterned bras and the shortest skirts in the summer. The winter brings her long pants and backless shirts, heavy cardigans and tight waist belts with tall black boots and fierce red lipstick. She’s an eyesore to her mother, an executive in the fashion industry, and is constantly chided for her ‘young, bourgeoise-meets-neo-bohemian’ tastes. His casual isn’t so bold or loud, but subtle, tasteful. He prefers his button-downs and polos, khaki slacks and slim cut black jeans. He’ll wear vests and flatcaps, his sleeves always the proper length. They look bizarre next to each other, with her mulberry-tipped hair and big sunglasses, with his expensive silver watch and Italian leather belts. She might have the flash and color of the Village, but he’s got an old-world style tailored to charm.

 

**Black Tie**

She feels out of place. They’re at the annual FIT Gala, and she’s of course gotten in thanks to her mother—Geneviève Bloom, one of the head executives of Chanel. Her mother works at the top of  _Chanel_  and still she flounders in this world of taffetas and chiffons, never knowing the difference between a cocktail dress-event and a floor-length gown one. Her hair’s been cut for this evening, all the pinks and magentas needing to be absent lest it hurt her mother’s reputation. She wasn’t allowed to do her makeup, and the dress she’s wearing was tailored to fit her, but still she feels off. It’s a rich, saturated dark blue with a plunging neckline to show off her lack of tits. It’s a halter made of some blend of rayon, so it flows beautifully when she moves. But she doesn’t move, she stands in the back, so no one can see her.  
Hannibal slides up to her in his exquisite double-breasted tux. A chain for a pocket watch is trailing across his jacket and she  _knows_  he’s out-classed her. “Apologies for the delay, my uncle wouldn’t let me leave without the proper cufflinks.” He shows her his wrist where a tiny sapphire sits rimmed in gold. It matches the studs in his buttonholes, she realizes upon further inspection. “You look like a prince.” He smiles and raises her hand to his lips. “Only your prince, my dear.”

 

**White Tie**

He’s more than just her prince. He’s an actual prince. Maybe not one from an existing country, but he has to rule over something. She can’t stop glancing over at him beside her, a faint nostalgic smile on his face. He’s in a grand tailcoat cut to make his shoulders look elegant and powerful. He’s so tall beside her. So present. He never has a large presence, but this evening he absolutely fills the space. He’s got decorations on his breast and she’s beaming with pride every time they glint under the chandeliers.  _I’m a count_ , he told her earlier when she asked.  _My father was from a stately Lithuanian family, and I inherited his title at his death_. And so he wears a horse-engraved silver cross on a red ribbon next to the white ribbon bearing the crest of his forefathers. He’s so young, he’s been through so much, and she’s in awe at him—enamored of him. Her chest swells with joy and pain as he swims through the Metropolitan Opera House, a colorful shark among the gray fish.

 

**Wedding**

"I feel like we met her yesterday," Alana says under her breath as the bride proceeds up the aisle. "When did Taylor get engaged?" "Last summer?" Louisa adjusts her hat, not thrilled with the sun or the crowd. "He and what’s-her-fuck have been dating for what feels like ages though." "Melissa," Hannibal mutters beside Alana. "She was at Christmas dinner, right?" "Taylor’s Eliza’s son, so yeah." He nods, running his thumb over hers. He insisted on being here, insisted on meeting more of her family even after she told him it wasn’t worth the trip. And it wasn’t. But still he sits beside her in a light gray suit and creamy yellow tie, somehow managing to pull all these cluttered patterns together in a seamless, sophisticated style. Her dress matches his tie, but she isn’t nearly so decorated. Oh, but her family  _loves_  him. Loves this handsome boy she’s brought home from school. The one who has incredibly clear intentions noticed by everyone but her. He’s attending every family gathering she mentions; he has an agenda.

 

**Business**

"This looks ridiculous," Alana groans, stretching her arms out in the navy jacket. "It looks fine, the sleeves are just short." He stands before her, adjusting her collar and cuffs. He’s been dressing her up like a barbie doll for the past half hour, trying to find her a suit that doesn’t make her look like matronly. She has an interview in three hours, and she’s convinced they won’t find anything. Four of her old pantsuits are lying on the floor, with only the skirtsuit left. It’s black and sleek and she hasn’t put it on since she went up a cup size, afraid it would be too tight in the chest. Hannibal rolls his eyes at her, undoing her pants with as much sexual intent as a rock, sliding them down and tossing them somewhere he didn’t care about, his mind set on making her look trim and proper. He doesn’t let her put the skirt on, gliding it over her hips himself. He buttons it, pulls her blouse down under the hem, and does up the matching jacket. He stands back, pleased with her appearance. "This is acceptable. What do you think?" "I think you should keep touching my thighs." He frowns. "You’re not soiling the only well-cut skirt you own  _before_  this interview.” He leans in, his lips brushing her ear. “You can afford to ruin your sheets after, however. I’ll hike it back up over your hips when you come back.”

 

**Sleep**

He sits on her bed while she paces in her closet. He’s making an impromptu summer visit and forgot to pack pajamas. The man who has  _everything_  forgot sleepware. And of course it’s the summer, so she can’t very well hand him sweatpants and one of Charlie’s old shirts and tell him to go crazy. But Charlie doesn’t know he’s here. No one does. He called her at nearly two in the morning to tell her he was on his way to Brooklyn and she flipped, swore, and went outside to meet him, sleepy and half-convinced she were dreaming. He showed up and confessed he was exhausted from the long train ride. And now she’s going through  _her_  clothes to see if she can find anything that will fit his  _ridiculous_  shoulders. “Can’t you just sleep in your underwear? I don’t even own a sweatshirt that’ll fit you.” He shrugs and stands, stripping out of his polo and slacks, laying them folded on the chair in the corner. “The bed downstairs has sheets on it, I don’t know about the one—” She stops at the sight of him, her stomach falling through the floor. She’s caught the smallest glimpses of him shirtless over the course of their friendship and this is overwhelming. His shoulders really _are_ that broad. He’s toned and his core is thick and sturdy like a tree trunk, explaining the wideness of his hips. She can’t take her eyes off the patch of ash-blonde hair on his chest, or the darker line that leads down to his—  
She swallows hard, overheating in her tanktop and soffes. She’s disgusted by how much she wants to run her fingers down his spine, so she hands him his clothes and pushes him out of her room. She locks the door in an attempt to bar herself from slinking down to the guestroom and forsaking the platonic nature of their friendship.

 

**Swimming**

He’s seen her in her underwear before—when they’re having such detailed conversations that she doesn’t want to pause to change her clothes—but there’s something about thin-stringed bikinis that makes him want to touch her covered still-pale skin. They’re just friends at the beach, he tells himself.  _Friends_. She doesn’t think of him as something else, so why should he? Who is he kidding, he’s smitten by the way her tanlines don’t match up, how her hair flows wild and tangled in the breeze, the look in her eyes as the waves crash at high tide, the sun bleeding into the clear ocean. She’s a goddess covered in seaweed and saltwater, and he’s hopelessly smitten. He was afraid he’d fall for the first beautiful creature that treated him well, and he was right, but he couldn’t be happier that she is his first actual love, his daring princess of endless energy and adventure. They watch the sunset on a rocky formation jutting off shore, the ocean nipping at their feet. She says something about how the colors are like ribbons striping a dark canvas, and he kisses her. He leans in and takes the words from her mouth, his heartbeat accelerating and his nerves bunching tightly in his stomach. His mind is quiet for once, barely registering her fingers tracing his jaw before moving to cup his head. She breaks from him but her hands don’t fall. Her mouth moves to say something and instead she laughs. “I’m sorry I can’t stop thinking about  _Grease_. This won’t be an only-summer affair, will it?” He nods yes, she’s correct, and goes straight back to kissing her until the stars rise.


End file.
